Elevator music

I cannot write anymore

The music I hear

Is the one they play

In elevators;

The one they believe

That makes slow steps go faster

The one they pretend

Will make a broken heart

More bearable.

I would rather listen to

A voice that has the courage to

Say something that is sincere 

The thing that would validate

Even just one of my tears

That what I have to brave through

Somehow is still worth
Me writing

The end of the book

Because at one point in time

Your eyes met mine

And not acknowledging a goodbye

I cannot help but hum

What a coward way to go out. 

Tourist in my own life

I am a tourist in my own life
Everything I am feeling
Is foreign land
I cannot quite recognize
This impasse
Is it really I --
I am a tourist in my own life

Should I not know by now
What I am capable of
What song I am supposed
To play
When I am having more
Than two bad days

Who is this person
Staring back at me
Here I am contemplating
And she is not crying
It is not I, it is not I
I am a tourist in my own life

What am I supposed to learn
When the one teaching a lesson
Is the one concerned
I become
Unknown territory to explore
With old wounds and sorrows
And now a new state of postwar
It is I, it is I
That has to reach out
To stop being
A tourist in my own life.

Coincidence

Now is
Not the time
Nor the place
To feel
What I buried
Come back
To the surface
Months spent
Coping
And perhaps I am
Avoiding
But what I
Endure
What am I
To do
When I face
The past
In the present
Here I am
Going on
Trying to
Make sense
Of what was
In the  end
Solely
A coincidence.